Σάββατο, 29 Δεκεμβρίου 2012

ΠΟΙΗΜΑΤΑ ΓΙΑ ΤΗ ΜΟΥΣΙΚΗ



ΠΟΙΗΜΑΤΑ ΓΙΑ ΤΗ ΜΟΥΣΙΚΗ




 Barrett Browning Elizabeth

A Musical Instrument 

What was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river:
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan,
While turbidly flowed the river;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
In holes, as he sat by the river.

"This is the way," laughed the great god Pan,
(Laughed while he sat by the river)
"The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed."
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain— 
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.



BAUDELAIRE CHARLES

*Christos Sipsis

MUSIC

Music doth uplift me like a sea
Towards my planet pale,
Then through dark fogs or heaven's infinity
I lift my wandering sail.
 With breast advanced, drinking the winds that flee,
And through the cordage wail,
I mount the hurrying waves night hides from me
Beneath her sombre veil.
 I feel the tremblings of all passions known
To ships before the breeze;
Cradled by gentle winds, or tempest-blown
 I pass the abysmal seas
That are, when calm, the mirror level and fair
Of my despair!
La Musique
La musique souvent me prend comme une mer!
Vers ma pâle étoile,
Sous un plafond de brume ou dans un vaste éther,
Je mets à la voile;
La poitrine en avant et les poumons gonflés
Comme de la toile
J'escalade le dos des flots amoncelés
Que la nuit me voile;
Je sens vibrer en moi toutes les passions
D'un vaisseau qui souffre;
Le bon vent, la tempête et ses convulsions
Sur l'immense gouffre
Me bercent. D'autres fois, calme plat, grand miroir
De mon désespoir!
 Από τα : Fleurs du mal



 Bronte  Anne


To greet with joy the glorious morn,Music on Christmas Morning 
Music I love -­ but never strain
Could kindle raptures so divine,
So grief assuage, so conquer pain,
And rouse this pensive heart of mine -­
As that we hear on Christmas morn,
Upon the wintry breezes borne.
Though Darkness still her empire keep,
And hours must pass, ere morning break;
From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,
That music kindly bids us wake:
It calls us, with an angel's voice,
To wake, and worship, and rejoice;
Which angels welcomed long ago,
When our redeeming Lord was born,
To bring the light of Heaven below;
The Powers of Darkness to dispel,
And rescue Earth from Death and Hell.



While listening to that sacred strain,
My raptured spirit soars on high;
I seem to hear those songs again
Resounding through the open sky,
That kindled such divine delight,
In those who watched their flocks by night.

With them, I celebrate His birth -­
Glory to God, in highest Heaven,
Good-will to men, and peace on Earth,
To us a Saviour-king is given;
Our God is come to claim His own,
And Satan's power is overthrown!


A sinless God, for sinful men,
Descends to suffer and to bleed;
Hell must renounce its empire then;
The price is paid, the world is freed,
And Satan's self must now confess,
That Christ has earned a Right to bless:

Now holy Peace may smile from heaven,
And heavenly Truth from earth shall spring:
The captive's galling bonds are riven,
For our Redeemer is our king;
And He that gave his blood for men
Will lead us home to God again.













CHESTERTON G.K.


*Christos Sipsis

The Strange Music 

Other loves may sink and settle, other loves may loose and slack, 
But I wander like a minstrel with a harp upon his back, 
Though the harp be on my bosom, though I finger and I fret, 
Still, my hope is all before me: for I cannot play it yet. 

In your strings is hid a music that no hand hath e'er let fall, 
In your soul is sealed a pleasure that you have not known at all; 
Pleasure subtle as your spirit, strange and slender as your frame, 
Fiercer than the pain that folds you, softer than your sorrow's name. 

Not as mine, my soul's annointed, not as mine the rude and light 
Easy mirth of many faces, swaggering pride of song and fight; 
Something stranger, something sweeter, something waiting you afar, 
Secret as your stricken senses, magic as your sorrows are. 

But on this, God's harp supernal, stretched but to be stricken once, 
Hoary time is a beginner, Life a bungler, Death a dunce. 
But I will not fear to match them-no, by God, I will not fear, 
I will learn you, I will play you and the stars stand still to hear.


DYKE

 "Music "

του Henry Van Dyke. 

*Christos Sipsis

Music
I

PRELUDE
Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that last night
When, pierced with pain and bitter-sweet delight,
She knew her Love and saw her Lord depart,
Then breathed her wonder and her woe forlorn
Into a single cry, and thou wast born?
Thou flower of rapture and thou fruit of grief;
Invisible enchantress of the heart;
Mistress of charms that bring relief
To sorrow, and to joy impart
A heavenly tone that keeps it undefiled,--
Thou art the childOf Amor, and by right divine
A throne of love is thine,
Thou flower-folded, golden-girdled, star-crowned Queen,
Whose bridal beauty mortal eyes have never seen!

II

Thou art the Angel of the pool that sleeps,
While peace and joy lie hidden in its deeps,
Waiting thy touch to make the waters roll
In healing murmurs round the weary soul.
Ah, when wilt thou draw near,
Thou messenger of mercy robed in song?
My lonely heart has listened for thee long;
And now I seem to hearAcross the crowded market-place of life,
Thy measured foot-fall, ringing light and clear
Above the unmeaning noises and the unruly strife;
In quiet cadence, sweet and slow,
Serenely pacing to and fro,
Thy far-off steps are magical and dear.
Ah, turn this way, come close and speak to me!>
From this dull bed of languor set my spirit free,
And bid me rise, and let me walk awhile with thee

III

Where wilt thou lead me first?
In what still region
Of thy domain,
Whose provinces are legion,
Wilt thou restore me to myself again,
And quench my heart's long thirst?
I pray thee lay thy golden girdle down,
And put away thy starry crown:
For one dear restful hourAssume a state more mild.
Clad only in thy blossom-broidered gown
That breathes familiar scent of many a flower,
Take the low path that leads thro' pastures green;
And though thou art a Queen,
Be Rosamund awhile, and in thy bower,
By tranquil love and simple joy beguiled,
Sing to my soul, as mother to her child.

ΙV

O lead me by the hand,
And let my heart have rest,
And bring me back to childhood land,
To find again the long-lost band
Of playmates blithe and blest.

Some quaint, old-fashioned air,
That all the children knew,
Shall run before us everywhere,
Like a little maid with flying hair,
To guide the merry crew.

Along the garden ways
We chase the light-foot tune,
And in and out the flowery maze,
With eager haste and fond delays,
In pleasant paths of June.

For us the fields are new,
For us the woods are rife
With fairy secrets, deep and true,
And heaven is but a tent of blue
Above the game of life.

The world is far away:
The fever and the fret,
And all that makes the heart grow gray,
Is out of sight and far away,
Dear Music, while I hear thee play
That olden, golden roundelay,"Remember and forget!"

V

SLEEP SONG

Forget, forget!
The tide of life is turning;
The waves of light ebb slowly down the west:
Along the edge of dark some stars are burning
To guide thy spirit safely to an isle of rest.
A little rocking on the tranquil deep
Of song, to soothe thy yearning,
A little slumber and a little sleep,
And so, forget, forget!

Forget, forget,
--The day was long in pleasure;
Its echoes die away across the hill;
Now let thy heart beat time to their slow measure
That swells, and sinks, and faints, and falls, till all is still.
Then, like a weary child that loves to keep
Locked in its arms some treasure,
Thy soul in calm content shall fall asleep,
And so forget, forget.

Forget, forget,
--And if thou hast been weeping,
Let go the thoughts that bind thee to thy grief:
Lie still, and watch the singing angels, reaping
The golden harvest of thy sorrow, sheaf by sheaf;
Or count thy joys like flocks of snow-white sheep
That one by one come creeping
Into the quiet fold, until thou sleep,
And so forget, forget!

Forget, forget,
--Thou art a child and knowes
tSo little of thy life!
But music tells
One secret of the world thro' which thou goest
To work with morning song, to rest with evening bells:
Life is in tune with harmony so deep
That when the notes are lowest
Thou still canst lay thee down in peace and sleep,
For God will not forget.

VI

HUNTING SONG

Out of the garden of playtime, out of the bower of rest,
Fain would I follow at daytime, music that calls to a quest.
.Hark, how the galloping measure
Quickens the pulses of pleasure;
Gaily saluting the mornWith the long clear note of the hunting-horn
Echoing up from the valley,Over the mountain side,
--Rally, you hunters, rally,Rally, and ride!

Drink of the magical potion music has mixed with her wine,
Full of the madness of motion, joyful, exultant, divine!
Leave all your troubles behind you,
Ride where they never can find you,
Into the gladness of morn,With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn,
Swiftly o'er hillock and hollow,
Sweeping along with the wind,
--Follow, you hunters, follow,
Follow and find!

What will you reach with your riding?
What is the charm of the chase?
Just the delight and the striding swing of the jubilant pace.
Danger is sweet when you front her,
--In at the death, every hunter!
Now on the breeze the mort is borne
In the long, clear note of the hunting-horn,
Winding merrily, over and over,
--Come, come, come!
Home again, Ranger! home again, Rover!
Turn again, home!

VII

DANCE-MUSIC

Now let the sleep-tune blend with the play-tune,
Weaving the mystical spell of the dance;
Lighten the deep tune, soften the gay tune,
Mingle a tempo that turns in a trance.
Half of it sighing, half of it smiling,
Smoothly it swings, with a triplicate beat;
Calling, replying, yearning, beguiling,
Wooing the heart and bewitching the feet.
Every drop of blood
Rises with the flood,
Rocking on the waves of the strain;
Youth and beauty glide
Turning with the tide--Music making one out of twain,
Bearing them away, and away, and away,
Like a tone and its terce--
Till the chord dissolves, and the dancers stay,
And reverse.

Violins leading, take up the measure,
Turn with the tune again,
--clarinets clearAnswer their pleading,
--harps full of pleasureSprinkle their silver like light on the mere.
Semiquaver notes,
Merry little motes,
Tangled in the haze
Of the lamp's golden rays,
Quiver everywhereIn the air,
Like a spray,--
Till the fuller stream of the might of the tune,
Gliding like a dream in the light of the moon,
Bears them all away, and away, and away,
Floating in the trance of the dance.

Then begins a measure stately,
Languid, slow, serene;
All the dancers move sedately,
Stepping leisurely and straitly,
With a courtly mien;
Crossing hands and changing places,
Bowing low between,
While the minuet inlaces
Waving arms and woven paces,
--Glittering damaskeen.
Where is she whose form is folden
In its royal sheen?
>From our longing eyes withholden
By her mystic girdle golden,
Beauty sought but never seen,
Music walks the maze, a queen.

VIII

THE SYMPHONY
Music, they do thee wrong who say thine art
Is only to enchant the sense.
For every timid motion of the heart,
And every passion too intense
To bear the chain of the imperfect word,
And every tremulous longing,
stirredBy spirit winds that come we know not whence
And go we know not where,
And every inarticulate prayer
Beating about the depths of pain or bliss,
Like some bewildered bird
That seeks its nest but knows not where it is,
And every dream that haunts, with dim delight,
The drowsy hour between the day and night,
The wake ful hour between the night and day,
ful hour between the night and day,
--Imprisoned, waits for thee,
Impatient, yearns for thee,
The queen who comes to set the captive free
Thou lendest wings to grief to fly away,
And wings to joy to reach a heavenly height;
And every dumb desire that Storms within the breast
Thou leadest forth to sob or sing itself to rest.

All these are thine, and therefore love is thine.
For love is joy and grief,
And trembling doubt, and certain-sure belief,
And fear, and hope, and longing unexpressed,
In pain most human, and in rapture brief
Almost divine.
Love would possess, yet deepens when denied;
And love would give, yet hungers to receive;
Love like a prince his triumph would achieve;
And like a miser in the dark his joys would hide.
Love is most bold:He leads his dreams like armed men in line;
Yet when the siege is set, and he must speak,
Calling the fortress to resignIts treasure, valiant love grows weak,
And hardly dares his purpose to unfold.
Less with his faltering lips than with his eyes
He claims the longed-for prize:
Love fain would tell it all, yet leaves the best untold.

But thou shalt speak for love. Yea, thou shalt teach
The mystery of measured tone,
The Pentecostal speech
That every listener heareth as his own.
For on thy head the cloven tongues of fire,
--Diminished chords that quiver with desire,
And major chords that glow with perfect peace,--
Have fallen from above;
And thou canst give releaseIn music to the burdened heart of love.

Sound with the 'cellos' pleading, passionate strain
The yearning theme, and let the flute reply
In placid melody, while violins complain,
And sob, and sigh,With muted string;
Then let the oboe half-reluctant sing
Of bliss that trembles on the verge of pain,
While 'cellos plead and plead again,
With throbbing notes delayed, that would impart
To every urgent tone the beating of the heart.
So runs the andante, making plain
The hopes and fears of love without a word.
Then comes the adagio, with a yielding theme
Through which the violas flow soft as in a dream,
While horns and mild bassoons are heard
In tender tune, that seems to float
Like an enchanted boat
Upon the downward-gliding stream,
Toward the allegro's wide, bright sea
Of dancing, glittering, blending tone,
Where every instrument is sounding free,
And harps like wedding-chimes are rung, and trumpets blown
Around the barque of love
That sweeps, with smiling skies above,
A royal galley, many-oared,
Into the happy harbour of the perfect chord.


IX
IRIS

Light to the eye and Music to the ear,
--These are the builders of the bridge that springs
>From earths's dim shore of half -remembered things
To reach the spirit's home, the heavenly sphere
Where nothing silent is and nothing dark.
So when I see the rainbow's arc
Spanning the showery sky, far-off I hear
Music, and every colour sings:
And while the symphony builds up its round
Full sweep of architectural harmony
Above the tide of Time, far, far away I see
A bow of colour in the bow of sound.

Red as the dawn the trumpet rings,
Imperial purple from the trombone flows,
The mellow horn melts into evening rose.
Blue as the sky, the choir of strings
Darkens in double-bass to ocean's hue,
Rises in violins to noon-tide's blue,
With threads of quivering light shot through and through.
Green as the mantle that the summer flings
Around the world, the pastoral reeds in time
Embroider melodies of May and June.
Yellow as gold,Yea, thrice-refined gold,
And purer than the treasures of the mine,
Floods of the human voice divine
Along the arch in choral song are rolled.
So bends the bow complete:
And radiant rapture flows
Across the bridge, so full, so strong, so sweet,
That the uplifted spirit hardly knows
Whether the Music-Light that glows
Within the arch of tones and colours seven
Is sunset-peace of earth, or sunrise-joy of Heaven.


LORD BYRON

*Christos Sipsis

Stanzas For Music 

There be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lulled winds seem dreaming;

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee,
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
***


*Christos Sipsis

For Music

There be none of Beauty's daughters
 With a magic like thee;
 And like music on the waters
 Is thy sweet voice to me:
 When, as if its sound were causing
 The charmed ocean's pausing, 
The waves lie still and gleaming,
 And the lull'd winds seem dreaming: 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep;
 Whose breast is gently heaving,
 As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee,
 To listen and adore thee; 
With a full but soft emotion,
 Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 


Rumi 


*Christos Sipsis

"We rarely hear the inward music,
but we’re all dancing to it nevertheless,
directed by the one who teaches us,
the pure joy of the sun,
our music master."

Rumi ( poet and Sufi mystic).



SHAKESPEARE
*Christos Sipsis

Σονέτο 128 
" How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st "
 How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessèd wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

Σονέτο 8
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly,
Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tunèd sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
Resembling sire and child and happy mother,
Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing;
Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: "Thou single wilt prove none."


***

CXXVIII

Πόσες φορές,ω μουσική μου, μουσική όταν παίζεις
στ' όργανο αυτό το τυχερό,που ηχεί μόλις τ' αγγίσουν
τα ευγενικά τα δάχτυλά σου κυβερνώντας
την αρμονία που μεθά την ακοή μου,
ζηλεύω τα μικρά τα πλήκτρα που πηδώντας
τη ρόδινη άκρη των δαχτύλων σου φιλούν,
ενώ τα χείλη μου, που θα 'θελαν να κάνουν το ίδιο,
άφωνα μένουν για την τόλμη αυτή του ξύλου!

Για να σ' αγγίξουν, αχ, τη θέση τους θ' αλλάζαν
μ' αυτά τα πλήκτρα που χορεύουν καθώς τρέχει
πάνω τους γρήγορα τ' ανάλαφρό σου χέρι,
το ξύλο πιο πολύ απ' τα χείλη μου ευλογώντας.

Μα αφού τα πονηρά τα πλήκτρα είν' έτσι ευτυχισμένα,
τα χέρια σου άφησε σ' αυτά, τα χείλη εμένα.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE


***

*Christos Sipsis

"Ode to Music"
James Monroe Whitfield (1822-1871)

THERES music wheresoeer we roam --- T is heard in oceans crested foam, And in the billows deafening roar, Which madly burst upon the shore: They sing of Heavens eternal Lord, Who calms their raging by his word. Theres music in the gentle breeze, which softly blows among the trees, Shaking fresh fragrance from the flowers, In blooming fields and shady bowers; They sing of Him whose power below, Caused trees, and grass, and flowers to grow Theres music in the numerous herds, Scattered about oer hills and plains, And in the flocks of feathered birds, Who, in a thousand varied strains, Praise Him whose all-creating word Brought into being beast and bird Theres music in the tempests sound, That darkly sweeps across the wave, And hangs its shadowy pall around The ship-wrecked sailors ocean grave; Where the wild waste of waters yell, Through caverns deep and dark as hell! It speaks of His almighty power, Whose arm is ever stretched to save, Who, in deaths dark and trying hour, Can shed a halo round the grave; And make the oceans yawning cavern, A glorious entrance into Heaven. Theres music in the thunders roar, Which peals along the vault of heaven, While torrents from the mountains pour, And trees by the dread bolt are riven; Seen by the fiery element, The earth, and sky, and sea seem blent.


It tells of Him whose wondrous power Can make the lightning do his will, And sends the cool refreshing shower Upon the just and unjust still; And whispers in a still, small voice, To all the sons of earth, rejoice! But leave this scene of doubts and fears, And swift on fancys pinions fly, And hear the music of the spheres Resounding sweetly through the sky; They sing of Him, th incarnate Word Mans Saviour, Heavens Almighty Lord! Whereer we turn, music is found, With all its Heaven-born power to charm, To lull us with its soothing sound, And shed around a holy balm --- Pure as the thrilling, heavenly strains From angels harps, on Judahs plains. Shall man, rescued from death and hell, Shall he alone refuse to raise His feeble voice, the song to swell Unto his great Creators praise? While seraphs and archangels join The blissful harmony divine. Then let our tongues fresh music make, And sound his wondrous praise abroad; And when the Universe shall quake, And Nature quail before her God, Well join the angels choir above, And sing our Lords unchanging love.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10200521767220890&set=gm.539319836114223&type=1&theater

***

Thomas Moore


*Christos Sipsis

On Music 

When through life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we used to love,
In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!
Wakening thoughts that long have slept,
Kindling former smiles again
In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale, that sighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song,
That once was heard in happier hours.
Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on,
Though the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music, oh, how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell!
Why should Feeling ever speak,
When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's balmy words may feign,
Love's are even more false than they;
Oh! 'tis only music's strain
Can sweetly soothe, and not betray.


***


*Christos Sipsis

Stephen Vincent Benet Music 

My friend went to the piano; spun the stool 
A little higher; left his pipe to cool; 
Picked up a fat green volume from the chest; 
And propped it open. 
Whitely without rest, 
His fingers swept the keys that flashed like swords, 
. . . And to the brute drums of barbarian hordes, 
Roaring and thunderous and weapon-bare, 
An army stormed the bastions of the air! 
Dreadful with banners, fire to slay and parch, 
Marching together as the lightnings march, 
And swift as storm-clouds. Brazen helms and cars 
Clanged to a fierce resurgence of old wars 
Above the screaming horns. In state they passed, 
Trampling and splendid on and sought the vast -- 
Rending the darkness like a leaping knife, 
The flame, the noble pageant of our life! 
The burning seal that stamps man's high indenture 
To vain attempt and most forlorn adventure; 
Romance, and purple seas, and toppling towns, 
And the wind's valiance crying o'er the downs; 
That nerves the silly hand, the feeble brain, 
From the loose net of words to deeds again 
And to all courage! Perilous and sharp 
The last chord shook me as wind shakes a harp! 
. . . And my friend swung round on his stool, and from gods we were men, 
"How pretty!" we said; and went on with our talk again.

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